Old Times

I feel broken,
completely scattered,
my body 
and spirit parts spread
to the end of
the multiverse
and beyond.
The tea whistles
at me,
it seems to be easier
to trust appliances
than people
in this strange
grey fog time
where words don't
come
but these
ragged ravaged
throaty sounds,
spat out in a cabin
in the marshes
of New Orleans,
whispering mantras
and old spells
no one but
the trees
remember.

Ravens recall,
harken back
to Michigan pine smells
and snow
shuffling with
brothers,
brethren through
the forest,
someone to have
my own language with,
dancing in the water
with the dragonflies
landing on me,
the sun streaming down,
for just a warm,
fuzzy,
hello.